The Road to Hell
by spunkymuzicnote
Summary: Holding the letters in his hand, Dumbledore could recall their author as he once was. He had been so- well he hadn’t been innocent. The child had never truly been innocent, but he was at least more so than the monster he became.
1. Chapter 1

The old man raced through the cottage door with the speed of someone markedly younger, and locked it, before crossing the room

**The Road to Hell**

By Spunkymuzicnote

**Summary:** Holding the letters in his hand, Dumbledore could recall their author as he once was. He had been so- well he hadn't been innocent. The child had never truly been innocent, but he was at least more so than the monster he became.

**Author's Note:** I had sworn off fan fiction (had to go cold turkey to get rid of my addiction), but couldn't get this story out of my head. I finally decided to just take a day and write it. Hopefully now I can get on with the rest of my life. Enjoy.

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The old man raced through the cottage door with the speed of someone markedly younger, and locked it, before crossing the room to close the blinds. There would be no magic any more. He still wasn't sure how things had gotten so ugly, so fast, but he was one of the only ones left and he knew his hours were numbered. The boy was coming.

Habitually he reached into his robe and pulled out a pile of tattered letters that had clearly been read over many times; so much so that the man could recite the contents word-for-word without stumbling. But there was something comforting about the letters themselves. Holding them in his hands the man could recall their author as he once was. He had been so- well he hadn't been innocent. The child had never truly been innocent, but he was at least more so than the monster he became. He had once eaten in the Great Hall with his friends, studied beside the lake on a sunny day, and caused his own fair share of point-docking mischief. The boy had once been good. He still believed himself to be good: traveling throughout the country acting as judge, jury, and executioner to anyone and everyone.

The man lifted the first letter up so he could see it properly in the dim light of dusk. It had been shocking when it first arrived. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined the boy would be allowed, ordered even, to write him. He assumed it was meant to taunt him, and there was no question that it did, but it was also reassuring. At least he had known the boy was alive. Though whether that was a good thing or not, he didn't know. As awful as it may seem, these days he often wondered if it would have been better for everyone had the boy died the first night he was kidnapped.

_July 15__th_

_Dear Professor Dumbledore:_

_I've been ordered to write you, though I haven't a clue as to why. At least you will know I'm alive. I'm being held in a cell someplace in the middle of nowhere. It's so cold that my hands are turning blue. I hope you can read this because I can't stop shaking. The Death Eaters may have heavily charmed cloaks, but all I have are my summer pajamas._

_Voldemort comes to see me every night. Mostly to mock me, but I can tell from personal experience that he is quite deft with Cruciatus. Maybe THAT'S why I can't stop shaking. Isn't that a side effect?_

_I'm so cold…_

The owl had arrived almost a week after the boy was taken from his room in the dead of night. Dumbledore could only imaging what it had been like for the boy to be awaken from one of his all too common nightmares, only to find himself surrounded by another one. Evidence in his room showed he had put up a valiant struggle, but it was for naught. The boy was gone.

_July 22__nd_

_Dear Professor Dumbledore:_

_Amazingly enough, I am well. I suppose Voldemort realized that I wouldn't have lasted much longer down in the basement. I've been moved upstairs to a rather lavish bedroom. Although I'm relieved to be anywhere besides the basement, I can't help wondering what it means that my new room looks like it should belong to a king. What does he expect of me? What is to be my fate?_

_July 25__th_

_Dear Professor Dumbledore:_

_Well I know now what He wants and it is something I will never give. He wants me to fight for him. Not so much to gain a new follower, rather to get a kick out of having The-Boy-Who-Lived under his command. As if I would ever obey him!_

_August 4__th_

_Dear Professor Dumbledore:_

_I was made to attend a meeting last night and now I can not get the screams out of my head. That poor family… And the laughter; the laughter was even worse. Had it not been for the muggles withering on the ground in front of me, I might have thought I was at a sporting match. It's disgusting! How can people do such things to each other? By the time the meeting was over I had thrown up my dinner, lunch, breakfast, plus most of dinner and lunch from the day before. And I am told that tomorrow night there will be another meeting which I am expected to attend. How Voldemort can think I would ever want to join this is beyond me. No one deserves this. Well, not "no one". I wouldn't mind it if HE were the one in the middle of the circle, being tortured and mocked by all. Or one of his followers. They'd deserve it. But the family from last night? What did they ever do to anyone?_

That meeting was the first time Dumbledore had heard what was happening to the boy from a source besides the letters. His spy had been present and told him what the boy had not. The boy was far from okay, worse than his letters stated. Gaunt and pale, the boy looked every part the prisoner of war that he was. The guards on either side of him and his bound hands indicated that they were still wary of escape attempts, and the hand-shaped bruises on his neck showed that he was still being tormented physically, as well as mentally.

For several weeks after that there were no letters from the boy. The only source of information about him came from the eye-witness accounts of his spy. And there were plenty of eye-witness accounts. Meetings were held far more regularly than usual; a special treat for the boy, who was made to watch and participate: as a victim.

It didn't seem possible but every meeting the boy looked worse than before. Somehow he managed to look paler and more stretched out daily. So it was no surprise when the next letter arrived one morning during breakfast:

_September 6__th_

_Dear Professor Dumbledore:_

_I'm sick. I thought my life had been bad before, but the last few weeks have been a living hell. I pray for death. I've looked for ways to kill myself but there are none. Voldemort is very careful with what he gives me. Nothing to harm myself with; thought that has never prevented him from hurting me himself. The irony… He's tried to kill me so many times in the past, but now that I wish to die he does everything in his power to prevent it. _

_I've been confined to my bed for days and am being force-fed potions. No one will tell me what they are for and, except for a few Pepper-Up Potions, I don't recognize them. I tried to fight it at first, but am too weak to do anything. For all I know they could be poisoning me, but there's nothing I can do. Still, if they are poison then at least I will die…_

The potions weren't poisons; this Dumbledore knew. The potions being pumped into the boy were far worse than poisons. Prior to taking these, the boy had a chance of returning to his old self. But after they were forced down his throat there was no chance for him. The potions, brewed especially for the boy, made him highly suggestible. Anything someone told him to do he would do, despite the boy's strength of character. By the time the potions wore off he would be so immersed in this new moral code created for him that there would be little chance of saving him. Worse, his captor was extraordinarily careful in creating a moral code that reflected the boy's past. The moment the boy took those potions was the moment he was lost. There was no turning him back.

_September 18__th_

_Dear Professor Dumbledore:_

_Does using an Unforgivable make you evil? If it does, then what am I? Voldemort gave me an awful choice this morning: Either I killed on man who had been convicted of murdering a child, or I watched as a group of children and their parents were tortured for hours, before finally being killed._

_In the end I killed him. It wasn't a hard decision but what does it mean that I could kill someone, anyone, without feeling any guilt? The only thing I feel guilty about is not feeling guilty. Does that make sense? I wish you could respond. I need a conscious right now. My own seems to be failing._

_October 9__th_

_Dear Dumbledore:_

_I killed again today; my seventh time. A woman this time: who had just gotten out of jail. She was there because she had abused her two children for years before she was caught. And now they were letting her walk free so she could do it again. What is wrong with muggles!? The wizarding way is better: Lock them up in the foulest place on Earth and throw away the key. As long as there is a fair trial, that's how it should be done. I'm being taught Legilmency so I can tell if someone is truly guilty, or what other crimes they may have committed. I'm not allowed to learn Occlumancy though. Voldemort doesn't want me to be able to block him. He picks through my brain often, so my memories are fresh. I remember clearly what those bastards you like to call my aunt and uncle did to me and that helps me make the right decisions. I have to protect kids from going through the same pain that I did._

_How could I have ever thought that life in that house was normal? It isn't normal to grow up locked away and starved; or worked like a slave. Even if I was too young to understand, how could the neighbors not notice anything? The entire street is filled with busy bodies, but not a single one lifted a finger to help me. A street like that, full of worthless, brainless muggles really should be taught a lesson. Voldemort keeps taunting me with the prospect of getting to do it. I suppose that would be one good thing about being a prisoner. I could never get even on my own._

Soon the muggle news was filled with stories about mysterious disappearances and deaths. Someone made the connection that all of the victims had somehow harmed children at one point in time in their life and certain people began to panic. Dumbledore had sent his people out to try and prevent the boy from committing more murders, but the attacks were so sporadic that there was little they could do.

Finally, days after the potions that made the boy suggestible expired; the boy committed the act that Dumbledore had been expecting. Voldemort gave the boy a group of his own followers and set him free: to attack Privet Drive. The boy was forever gone.

_November 1__st_

_Dumbledore:_

_You really shouldn't have left Tonks and Shaklebolt to watch the Dursleys. You can't protect the guilty like that. They have to pay for their crimes. The most I can do is tell you that it was quick. As for the rest of Privet Drive, they weren't so lucky. I ordered my Death Eaters to take their time before killing every single one of them. I got to confront each one before they died and made sure they knew that it was THEIR fault this was happening. The looks on their faces when they saw me was priceless. I'm no longer the scrawny little freak they remember whispering about. In the hours before they died I'm sure many of them thought about the lies the Dursleys had spread about me attending St. Brutes. But I am no criminal. This is merely payment in kind for their treatment of me._

_Of course I saved the Dursleys for last. I've never managed a proper Cruciatus curse before, but for my uncle I did. All I had to do was listen to the foul expletives coming out of his mouth and it was easy. And his scream… I've never heard anything so satisfying._

_Just so you know, you won't find their bodies. They are still alive. I brought them back to my lord's castle where they will live for eleven years before being killed. One for each year I lived there and an extra for my summers with them. I think that's fair, don't you? Because they were so kind as to provide me a special space in their house just for me, I though I would return the favor. I even took the trouble to make some lovely cupboards for them to live in. One of my Death Eaters took some measurements of my cupboard before I blew the house up, and their new homes are exact replicas of my old bedroom. Of course my aunt and uncle are much larger than I was at the time, especially my uncle. But that's not my fault._

_My lord was so kind that as he went through my memories over the past months he noted each and every punishment I was given during my life with them. My aunt and uncle will receive the same. For every minute I spent locked in my cupboard, they will be locked in. For every time they starved me, they will be starved. For each time I was hit, or sent to weed in the hot sun, or even insulted, they will get the same. I'll even upgrade their room after ten years in their cupboard. After all, it's only fair._

Upon receiving that last letter Dumbledore had hurried to Privet Drive. What he found there made even the strongest men and women weep. There was carnage everywhere. Every man, woman, and teen had been slaughtered and the street destroyed. Sure enough there was nothing left of the boy's former home aside from the hole in the ground that was once a basement.

Only one house on the block remained intact. Inside were the children of those who's dead bodies lay in the street. They had been shut off from the massacre to "protect" them. The next day another letter arrived:

_November 2__nd_

_Dumbledore:_

_I am sorry about the children that were left without parents last night, but if their parents willingly ignored a young child's need for help, who is to say that they didn't inflict the same pains on their own children. Or won't in the future. They must be kept safe. Find them good homes with families who will care for them._

There was no longer any question in Dumbledore's mind. The boy was mad. He had to be stopped no matter what the cost.

Soon there were hundreds of murders nightly. The muggle world was at a loss as to how it was happening, but the wizarding world knew. The Department of Mysteries had been broken into and every single Time Turner stole. On the boy's command, Death Eaters were turning back time over and over again. It was said that if a person had even LOOKED at a child wrong during their lifetime they would be killed. And it wasn't just muggles being murdered. Wizards and witches were being hunted too. The irony was that the boy's crusade to protect the children of the country was leaving thousands orphaned. No one could stop the boy.

The next letter shocked the wizarding world to its core:

_December 14__th_

_My lord is dead. Somehow he got the idea that I was out of control and tried to kill me. I killed him in self defense but it's your fault that he's dead! If you had never left me at Privet Drive I would never have had to kill everyone and he would still approve of me. This is all YOUR fault! _

_Now I realize the truth: You're just as bad as anyone else I have passed judgment on in this world. You left me to the Dursley's tender mercies and never once checked on me, or if you did then you still left me there which is even worse. You let me wander into danger so many times over my school years, sometimes even helping to put me there. Who else at school did you hurt? Watch your back old man. You're next on my list._

Voldemort was dead; killed by the monster he had created. What did it mean that a man who had wrecked so much havoc on the world believed the boy out of control? More and more people died, including the majority of the Order and many Death Eaters. It became harder and harder to understand why a person was selected to die, but Dumbledore knew that in the madness of the boy's mind it made perfect sense.

A knock at the door made Dumbledore jump. He had known this was coming and was as prepared as he could be. He had only wanted a few more hours to remember what the child was like before he became a monster. Pulling his wand he approached the cottage door and opened it. Standing on the front stoop was the boy, his eyes wild with madness. A quick expelliarmus on the boy's part and his wand was gone.

"Harry." Dumbledore inclined his head to acknowledge his former student.

"Dumbledore," the boy spat back.

"I know why you have come. Go ahead and do it, Harry. I am ready." Dumbledore took a deep breath and reminded himself of what he had told this boy when he was still an innocent first year- To the well organized mind; death is just another great adventure.

The boy said nothing. His only response was a flash of green light from his wand. It raced towards Dumbledore, and then… nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Road to Hell**

By Spunkymuzicnote

**Summary:** There was no question about it now. The boy had to be stopped. He made plans for the boy's death. And now here he was, wandless and facing the monster he had created.

**Author's Note:** So, I woke up at 3 in the morning and couldn't get back to sleep, so I decided to do a little writing. This is the result of my insomnia. Enjoy.

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Looking down the end of the boy's wand he couldn't help but wonder when everything had fallen apart. His plans had been flawless. Once the potion was down the boy's throat he, the great Lord Voldemort, had won. There was to be no stopping him.

When had things gone so terribly wrong?

That first night had been one out of a magnificent dream. It had been a beautiful sight seeing the Boy-Who-Lived, the bane of his existence, shaking on his knees before him. He could see the boy's eyes flitting about as he looked for escape but he would find none. The boy was his: his prisoner, his property, his plaything.

He had laughed at the boy's false bravado. The boy had gone through all of the classic lines that he had heard so many times before: "I hate you!", "You won't get away with this!", and his favorite – "Dumbledore will save me!" If the boy really thought that his precious Dumbledore would find him hidden in an implottable castle with the fidelus charm on it, as well as a second fidelus charm on his person (himself being the secret keeper), then he truly was addle in the brain, even before a single Cruciatus had been cast.

It had been chance that provided the opportunity for him to get his hands on the boy and so he had no clear plan for the boy when he first arrived. He was locked away in the dungeons while the inner circle debated how best to use their prize. Bellatrix was, of course, eager for a long torture followed by an even longer death. Greyback wanted to experiment on him, to see how many times a person could be bit by a werewolf in human body before becoming a wolf himself. Lucius had suggested making the boy his slave; forced to follow his enemy around and do his bidding, and tortured when he rebelled.

But none of these suited him. Instead, he had always dreamed of having the boy as his servant. It was one of the few things that sustained him during his exile. Years and years of nothing to do but plot vengeance against the boy who had put him there in the first place had resulted in so many creative ways of destroying the child that it was difficult to choose.

The Cruciatus Curse was much too lenient on the boy. Pure pain was all well and good but he wanted the boy to _really_ suffer. Muggle-lover that he was, Dumbledore would surely have raised the boy to know muggle customs, so what about muggle torture? Being burned alive wasn't enough to satisfy him, but perhaps the boy might be drawn and quartered? The idea of hanging the boy until he was nearly dead, removing his guts while he was alive, and then slicing him up into four was tempting, but still didn't bring him the satisfaction of a long, slow, demise.

Besides, there had been that damned prophecy to consider. He still didn't know what it entailed. Who knew what would have happened if he killed the boy? For all he knew he himself could end up dead. Despite his Horcruxes he didn't want to take that chance.

Servitude it was then, but he could still have some fun while the potion was brewed.

Daily meetings were called in honor of the boy. Muggles were brought in and tortured in front of him. The boy was ridiculously weak and every emotion showed clearly on his face. He would have to be toughened up if he was to become the servant of Lord Voldemort. It wouldn't do to have him throwing up in the middle of a muggle raid; not at all becoming of a future Death Eater.

Then of course it was the boy's turn. He had found that giving someone a reminder that they were about to be tortured increased their panic so he was sure to give the boy a five minute warning before his tortures began. "In just a few minutes that will be you…" he would whisper in the boy's ear as they stood together watching a family of muggles writher under the Cruciatus. The boy never said anything but he could always tell by the way the boy tensed that the reminder had worked. The boy was terrified and that was _exactly_ what he wanted.

With a wave of his hand the Death Eaters cast a final Avada Kedavra on the unfortunate muggles and clear them from the room, creating room for the main attraction. Then the boy would be dragged into the middle of the room. Towards the beginning the boy would try to stand upright in wait of the impending torture ("like his father", Voldemort had gleamed the thought from the boy's weak mind), but the boy soon learned that it was pointless. The boy would be thrown to the ground and before he could move the Cruciatus would be upon him. The Dark Lord liked to start out strong and there was nothing worse than the Cruciatus.

He would take several minutes of his own, torturing the boy – paying him back for all the suffering he had caused him. Next he would select his most successful Death Eaters and have them form a circle around the boy. Then, upon his signal, the fun would begin. They would begin by passing the boy around the circle, taking turns beating on him until he was too dizzy to know which way was up. Next the wands would come out. That was the part the boy truly feared. Crouching down he would try to protect his head, but to no avail. It was beautiful to watch as the spells rained down on him. The spells almost sparkled as they combined to create the worst pains imaginable and the boy's screams… delicious.

He enjoyed the atmosphere of these events. It was like the Quidditch matches he remembered from his youth.

Still, the torture was wearing the boy down and just as the potion was finished the boy fell ill. It was perfect timing as the potion needed to be ingested willingly and the boy's resistance was down due to the illness. After having to force down several potions for his health the boy seemed to give up. He no longer had the energy to resist. Any potion that was put in front of him was drunk without fuss. Personally, the Dark Lord thought the boy to be suicidal and hoping for poison. Still, the boy's willingness was put to good use and among the healing potions that he took they slipped in the willpower potion. Down it went and the boy was his.

As soon as the boy was well they began his training. The boy was given his wand and a decision: either kill a man who had murdered a child, or watch as several families were tortured and killed. Clearly the potion had started to work as it wasn't long before the boy made his decision and, after a few tries, a green light shot from his wand and the man was dead. The boy had shown sign of shock after the deed was done but upon questioning it was confirmed that he was surprised that he _didn't_ feel guilty. The potion was working.

The following day he went to visit the boy in his room. There he talked to the boy about his family, or rather the muggles who pretended to be his family. Using memories that he had been collecting from the boy's brain he pressed the boy to admit that their treatment of him was heinous. They discussed his "room" for the first ten years of his life, the starvation, and his treatment as a house elf. Surprisingly the boy's reluctance to discuss the topics had little to do with the fact that he was talking to his sworn enemy. Rather it was due to the fact that he had hardly ever spoken to anyone about this. Ever.

He could hardly believe that the boy had never talked to Dumbledore about his mistreatment and so he pressed the matter. How could Dumbledore, a man who trumpeted himself as a defender of children, leave his precious Boy-Who-Lived in such an abusive household? What did that say about him? Was he really to be trusted? He put these questions to the boy, leaving the answers unsaid. Still he could almost see the gears turning in the boy's head.

They talked some more about child abuse and how wrong it was. He even brought up his own childhood at the orphanage, something he had sworn never to speak of again. But creating a bond of similar mistreatment would bring the boy further to his side. Still, he didn't bring up the fact that he had been nearly as much of a bully to the other children at the orphanage as the boy's cousin had been to the boy.

And when he offered to help the boy get even, the boy nodded his head ever so slightly.

Training continued and the boy progressed rapidly. The next lesson they had there was no decision for the boy to make. They simply put him in a room with a man who had been in jail for beating and starving his nephew. A few minutes later a flash of green light and the sound of a body falling proved that the boy had done his job. Dumbledore would have been horrified to watch his beloved Boy-Who-Lived becoming a nice little killer to join the Dark Lord's ranks. Soon he had mastered the Killing Curse and had moved on to the Imperius Curse. Legilmency was next; a tool the boy could use to know who had broken the unwritten law of not harming children. All lessons were practiced on those who had harmed children, of course. A reinforcement of the moral code he was creating for the boy.

The boy no longer needed to be supervised when in possession of his wand and he was free to wander around the castle, so long as he didn't try to leave. The Death Eaters paid lip-service when they saw him, only to laugh hysterically once out of his hearing. The Dark Lord could understand. He himself had occasionally had a good chuckle over the boy's behavior. It was comical watching the Boy-Who-Lived, Champion of the Light, striding through the hallways of the darkest wizard in the world's castle as though he were a dark prince. And the best part was that the boy had no clue of the changes within him. In his mind everything was justified. Nothing was different.

The next step was to take the boy on raids. It wasn't long before the boy showed as much ruthlessness as the highest ranking Death Eaters. Though his attacks were purely on those who had harmed children, his technique was to be admired. Poetic justice was the boy's motto. Whatever ill deeds the boy's victims had dealt out to children was visited upon them threefold before their death.

The attack on Privet Drive was the boy's crowning moment. Entirely orchestrated by the boy, the execution of his revenge couldn't have been more violent and bloody. As this was the boy's first solo mission there was to be no Dark Lord accompanying him. But he couldn't resist, and a polyjuice potion later the greatest, most terrible, wizard in the word looked to be no more than a minor peon. And he was glad for the deception. The destruction the boy created was a thing of beauty. And to watch him confront each of his neighbors in turn was a delight to watch. Of course the sight of him confronting his relatives was the icing on the cake. He had been so proud when he learned of the boy's plans for his aunt and uncle. There was to be no death for the wicked. The revenge was poetic justice. It was proof that the transformation was complete. The boy was his and no one else's.

The boy's raids became more and more extravagant and the acquisition of time turners provided even greater opportunity. He was pleasantly surprised at how ruthless the boy had become. It was only when Death Eaters began to disappear during the boy's raids that questions were raised. No one knew where they had gone to however, and as they were of the lower ranks, few cared to find out. But it was when the boy murdered Bellatrix for having a little too much fun on a raid that he realized the boy was out of control. Understandably, her lack of sanity had led her to turn her wand on a youth of 13 during one of the boy's missions. When the boy found out he became livid and, though Bella had begged, he had no mercy for her. A spell later she was dead.

When he heard of the boy's doings he realized what had happened to his other missing Death Eaters. There was no question about it now. The boy had to be stopped. He made plans for the boy's death. He should have killed the boy when he was first kidnapped – hang the prophesy.

And now here he was, wandless and facing the monster he had created.

"How could you?" The boy cried out. "I trusted you!"

"Harry Potter, I have done nothing but help you, but you are out of control. You need to stop." He reached his hand out shakily. He would not die again. "Now why don't you just give me that wand?"

"You've hurt me too. You've hurt children! I remember now. You didn't think I would, but I do. You can't do that. We must protect the children."

"Harry –"

"Avada Kedavra."

A green light, then pain.

Pain beyond pain.

He was ripped from his body and thrown out into the world.

Once again a shadow; waiting forever for someone to come along and return him to life.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Road to Hell**

By Spunkymuzicnote

**Summary:** "Have your fun, but make it quick," I order, "Then kill her."

I was young once, but never innocent. I knew what it was to be alone, always alone. To be left to the wolves with no one to protect you. To be self-reliant. To be trapped. That's what happens when you're left with abusers. You learn quickly that no one will rescue you. No one will help you escape the nightmare that is your life.

My childhood wasn't as bad as some, but that still didn't make if right. And worse, I didn't know it was wrong. Not for a very long time. Is it right for a child to think that all evil cousins live in a cupboard under a stairway? Or are only fed when their long list of chores are done?

Some children try to reach out for help. I know I did once. But it only leads to more trouble. Only a true hero can overcome the law and the bureaucracy to do what needs to be done.

That's where I come in: Defender of the weak. I look into the minds of the enemy and see them for what they truly are - vermin who destroy innocents with their hatred. It's a horrible job, looking into the minds of that filth. Seeing what they have done. But someone has to do it and I am one of the few with the skill and the will to see it.

"My Lord."

My thoughts are interrupted by one of my followers bringing a prisoner to me. It is their job to capture those who are potentially dangerous. It is mine to look into their minds and determine their punishment. I lift the chin of the prisoner and make eye contact.

Blowing past the most recent memories I see a child of around five, starved and alone while mother is away for the day. Feelings reverberate through the memory and I can tell that it only happened a few times, when the mother was short on money. Still, something could have been done. There is always a way.

"Have your fun, but make it quick," I order, "Then kill her."

"No! No!" The woman begs. "I did the best I could. Please let me live! Don't take me away from my Jacob!"

"A child in your care was harmed," I reply to her pleading, "That is all that matter. Take her away and find a new home for the child."

Still begging the woman is led away from me and another of my followers brings in a man. He is shaking with fear. I look into his mind. He has a seven-year-old boy. I see images of basketball games, fishing trips, a scraped knee and band aids.

"Mark him as innocent and send him home to his son," I command, "Next."

The long line of potentials snakes through the main room, waiting for my examination. It is a tiresome task that leaves me drained. And tomorrow there will be more to inspect. But it must be done. Muggles and Wizards alike must be examined for memories of abuse and if any is found it must be dealt with properly.

The next on the docket enters the room enters the room and to my surprise it is a familiar face - a witch who I know all too well. Her red hair gives her away and she looks pale and drawn.

"Harry!" Breaking away from her captor she rushes toward me. "Oh Harry, we've missed you so much!" She tries to hug me but I pull away.

"My Lord?" One of my followers asks, "Is this woman bothering you?"

I shake my head. Memories of the closest thing I've ever had to a home echo through my head. It's been a long time since I thought of them. "She is innocent. Mark her and send her home to her family."

"Aren't you going to inspect her?" my follower asks curiously.

"There is no need," I reply. I already know her. There is no way she would ever harm a child. Not after accepting me into her home the way she did.

"Harry, please! Let me stay with you, for a little while."

I sigh and look away. "Go home to your family, Mrs. Weasley. I am sure they are waiting for you."

"Just tell me, please. Are you well?"

"I am –" I am about to say that I am fine, but I stop and think for a moment. Am I truly fine? My days are long and my nights are haunted with memories I have dug out of peoples minds. I do not eat as I should and I have no one to console me. I am far from 'fine'.

"I am tired," I reply.

"Let me help you," she says, "Just for a little while. I know you've done many horrible things, but you are still my black haired son. Please, let me help."

"Necessary things," I correct her. What I do is not horrible. It is my destiny to care for the weak.

"As you like it."

"I am busy." It is true. I have a long line of people to judge. Waiting for me. Waiting to hear their fates.

"Just sit with me for a little while."

I consider her request. It has been so long since I have been able to talk with someone. So long since I have set aside my duties and just lived. It is tempting to take an hour and be with someone who cares about me. But I must remain strong. I must do my job.

"No," I reply abruptly.

"Harry…"

"Take her home," I order my nearest follower, "And make sure she stays there."

"Harry, please!" she tries to pull out of the grasp of my follower who is holding her, but he is too strong. I turn my back but am unable to block out the sound of her voice echoing through the room as she is pulled away.

"Know that we love you, Harry. Even after all you have done. We love you."

The door slams shut. I turn back to the line before me, feeling wearier than ever before.

"Next," I command. It is time to move on. It is time to do my duty and fulfill my destiny.

I am Harry Potter, and I am Justice.

Note: I don't necessarily agree with Harry's decisions on who lives and who dies. He's gone more than a little mad at this point and as Dumbledore explained in the first chapter, even those who have the best intentions are being killed.


End file.
